Dancing All Alone
by Jemppy
Summary: Too live and die and to have no one even know that you are gone is a tragedy....that's what Greg is afraid of... (Greg angst case-file)
1. You live in a dream world

**AN:** This is my first CSI fic and I decided to try both an angst fic with a case-file in the  
background. I've been doing research, so I hope to get some facts right. But I would like say  
again that this is the first CSI one. But I love this show so much, that I couldn't resist. :)  
  
**Disclaimer:** I don't own CSI. If I did, then obviously Greg would be a CSI now. Titles taken  
from the wonderful band In Flames.  
  
**Warnings:** Thoughts of suicide and cutting.  
  
**Title:** _Dancing All Alone_  
**Part 1:** _You live in a dream world.  
_-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I dream about how it's going to end.  
  
I've always prided myself in living life with an edge; with a bit of twist and flare that makes  
people turn their gaze to me, so it would be only natural that I go out with the same flare.  
  
I work with death, so I've seen the different methods people have chosen to end their lives with.  
The most interesting version being with a grocery bag and liberally applied duct tape. I saw only  
the crime-scene photos but the person finding that one must still be in therapy. In a cold way,  
that's the kind of response I want people to have after finding the body.  
  
Funny, how I think of myself as 'the body' after death. That's all human life is reduced to in the  
end. I know, I've seen it.  
  
Actually, I guess I flatter myself by saying that I've seen it. All I've really seen is a few precious  
moments in the field, never the first to arrive; merely an afterthought for a set of extra hands. I  
just see the mixtures and compounds that make up fluids and fibers, skin cells and DNA tags,  
never the real action. I'm just making educated guesses at what it would be like, I guess.  
  
But as I sit here at this desk, piled high with evidence and results, I can't help but to remind  
myself that making educated guesses are just another aspect of a scientist, and flattering myself I  
may be with attributing knowledge with CSI level work, I know that I really am a scientist.  
  
These hulking, cold machines that cage me in are physical proof of that.  
  
Am I living in a dream world?  
  
Tap. Tap. Tap. I have more evidence to process yet here I am just taping my pencil against the  
desk; the wood keeping a rhythm that none of my music could ever demean itself to. Something  
so tame and organized, a rhythm that just isn't me.  
  
There is a little transparent baggy in front of me containing a pencil, not much different than  
mine, except the difference was that the eraser was chewed. Now who doesn't chew their eraser  
at some point? That's what Warrick and Catherine are ridding on and that their perp's DNA  
could resided on some shredded lump of rubber glued to the end of a lead filled stick.  
  
It's my job to run the tests.  
  
My machines in my lab find the killers, and they get to put him or her away and take the credit  
and the glory of knowing that they saved just a little bit more of the most sinful city in the world.  
  
I just sit in my dream world of machines and tests.   
  
I've fought this feeling of apathy before. Well, now that's not quite the truth, it wasn't really  
apathy, now was it? Doctors had a ready made name for it: clinical depression. They have such  
neat little packages ready for you when you are diagnosed, pamphlets and monochromatic  
cartoons. Excuses telling me that I felt the way I did because of pressure, because school was  
getting to me and the idea of college beyond my small teenaged realm was cracking down on me  
and my mind couldn't handle it all. So it began to break down, darkness crawled in and took up  
residence.  
  
But everyone and their dog was depressed back then. Now too. So I really don't know.  
  
Now here I am staring at my pencil, and the one in the bag.  
  
Bag.  
  
Which brings us full tilt around back to ending one's life with a simple grocery bag. I may sound  
slightly arrogant, but I don't really want to go out with the words "Thriftway" upside down over  
my head.  
  
Which leaves me here, dreaming how it is going to end.  
  
In a way though, I don't want to have a hand in my own death. There is a part of me that wants  
to feel alive. Half alive at least.  
  
I look down at my hands holding the pencil and I can barely hold a cynical laugh in. Gloves  
cover my hands down to the wrists in order to prevent contamination of the evidence. Evidence  
that others gathered for me to analyze.  
  
I'm not bitter.  
  
I'm stereotypical.  
  
If you look past those gloves, underneath the crazy print shirt and lab coat, you'd see the old  
scars that use to be my method of coping with the doctor-issued "clinical depression". The lines  
would fade into my natural skin tone only to flare back out to that cold ash gray of scar tissues a  
bit further down. Some were thin, others were wide. It really depended on what angle I held the  
razor. Contrary to what some believe, thick cuts could be made by simple razor blades, no  
'Xacto knifes are needed. Swiping it cleanly across your forearm or under arm made the thin  
lines, that took a few seconds to bead up blood; while it was the thick ones that took a second for  
the skin to process that it has been sliced open before the blood some welling up, for those, the  
blade had to be angled toward your body, almost at a 30 degree angle.  
  
How very stereotypical of me.  
  
I went through high school as the geek who cut. Not a reputation I am very proud of. I was  
foolish to wear my scars on the outside, daring someone to ask about them. Like you see on  
those made-for-TV movies, filled with the angst, there is always someone to help the depressed  
teen out of their destructive ways.   
  
No one saw me. No one asked. I kept in my razor's company.  
  
Then one day the fog lifted and I began to wake up for the day. It was over and I returned to my  
life again. No drugs did that for me. I just managed to rescue myself.  
  
I should have known that if it had left so easily, then it could just as easily return.  
  
Funny, I just thought that it would have come back after the lab exploded, not several months  
later.   
  
The razor has suddenly moved into place next to my bed.  
  
Only I am not foolish enough to continue slicing my arms. Well, sometimes, on really bad days,  
I allow a quick slash, only one though, just daring one of my co-workers to find out.  
  
Though I don't know what they would do if they did.  
  
The majority of the cuts take up my calves and thighs. No one thinks to check there. Hell they  
don't even check the obvious stops either. That's why I've been splurging lately and have at  
least three deep cuts on my arms today. All 30 degrees too.  
  
My legs are worst. I keep them an inch away from the desk as I tap my pencil in what appears to  
be boredom. If I were to jar them against anything, I'd probably fall over in pain and shock. But  
I don't look at them. I don't allow myself to see the marks until the end of the shift, when I am  
back at home and changing for bed. Only then.  
  
It has become like a treat to see the bruising around the cuts. I love the radial contusions that the  
razor makes.  
  
Would a pencil be able to make a cut the same way? I look at the pointed end and realize that not  
only would it make a terrible cutting device, but I should have been running tests on that pencil  
hours ago. Warrick or Catherine, or Grissom for that matter could be charging in here any  
minute, looking for their results.  
And I have none to show.  
  
I've been living in a dream world.  
  
Pressing the tip of my pencil against one of the scabbed 30 and exert a slight bit of force, letting  
the led dig in slightly.  
  
"Greg," Catherine, oh god, the pencil slipped and caught underneath the scab and jerked it.  
"Have those results on the eraser test for me?"  
  
Ignoring the slight bit of pain, I realized that it is either time to fess up that I've been spacing or  
come up with a convincing lie. "Sorry Cath, the results have been backlogged." Yes, going with  
the busy excuse. I know that it is at least partially the truth.  
  
She is looking at me with those eyes that can seem to sense the lie. She is good at that. She can  
see pass the layers of bullshit that people build around themselves; she can even seem to see past  
Grissom's and his shit is thicker than anyone's I've ever known.  
  
"You alright, Greggo?" Nickname, trying to innocently worm her way into my mind. Not  
working.  
  
Flashing her my brightest smile, I try to sooth her worries. "Yeah Cath, believe it or not, Ecklie  
has pushed some of his days' stuff on me, calling it priority and in turn pushing yours to the  
bottom."  
  
"Then why is it in front of you?"   
  
Shit. I forgot that I was looking at it. "Just looking at it. I figured, I'd run some days, then run  
yours as a special favor." flashing that winning grin again.  
  
It seemed to work this time. She gave me a return smile and nodded ever so slightly. "Thank  
Greg..." she trailed off and stared hard at me. "Greg are you bleeding?"  
  
That statement shocked me. Looking down, I could see where my pencil had reopened one of my  
cuts and now it was sluggishly dripping down my latex glove.  
  
Red on white.  
  
For all my inner feelings of wanting to be caught the initial thought was to make more excuses.  
My fluent mouth stumbled as I met Catherine's eyes.  
  
I was caught off guard.  
  
I was living in a dream world.


	2. Why don't you tell some one?

**AN:** Wow, I got a better response than I anticipated! Thanks! Well here is the next part, yeah it is  
going to be a series. Kind of alternating POVs. This is Catherine and this story is still Greg-  
centered. Plus the case-file enters the story.  
  
**Disclaimers:** I don't own CSI and the First Continental Trade Bank is fake.  
  
**Title:** _Dancing All Alone  
_**Part 2:** _Why don't you tell some one?_  
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
This job is getting to me. I know it.  
  
I know it because I can tell the discrepancies in his voice as he tried to give me an explanation of  
why he hadn't done his work, excuses really. I know because I've been trained to stare into  
suspects's eyes to see if they can meet mine in the truth, his are just as shifty as a murder suspect.  
I know because I've seen the same posture in a person that is hiding something.  
  
But most importantly, I know because his welfare isn't the first thought that crosses my mind  
when I see the blood thickly sliding down his hand, it is the words: _cross-contamination_.  
  
What have I've become?  
  
Now he has passed the point of excuses when he held my eyes in that shocked and confused gaze.  
He's fumbling for a reason that eludes him. I know.  
  
Then the silence is gone with a blinding grin and a slight laugh.  
  
"Sorry Cath, ever since I've got that cat of mine, I haven't quite learned the fact that cat nails are  
sharp and sharp things hurt." The grin stays firm. "It doesn't help that I've yet to grow out of that  
childish picking of the scab phase. You know how it goes."  
  
I know how it goes. For all is imagination in dress and speech, his brilliant mind could only come  
up with the 'cat scratch' excuse? We work with the police force, we are CSI, I'm not a dumb  
blond that would let that evidence slide by. I know the signs.  
  
It's my job to see them.  
  
Why didn't I see them earlier is the real question here.  
  
I open my mouth to accuse him, to ask him, to plead with him, but Grissom decides to make his  
presence known.  
  
"Catherine, Greg, we've got a 445A, they're calling in all hands, days and nights." he delivered his  
message and was leaving before either I or Greg could answer.  
  
All seriousness with the situation prior to Grissom's arrival was gone. All I could see in his eyes  
now was anticipation; he wanted to be out in the field, even with something as messy and  
complicated as a 445A.  
  
"Refresh my memory Cath, what's a 445A?" he asked as he shrugged out of his lab coat. I  
noticed that he was wearing a long sleeved shirt under the coat and there was just a slight bit of  
drying blood on the cuff of the sleeve. And with a quick snap, the gloves with the blood from his  
arm were deposited into a nearby trash can.  
  
"It means a bomb." together we walked out of the lab, "If they are calling in both shifts, then  
there is a high body count and extensive damage."  
  
"Bomb." he whispered under his breath.   
  
"Yeah, its cases like this that are the hardest to work" I can't help but let the world-weariness  
tone color my voice; it is the truth. "and even in years after the 9-11 attacks, we're suppose to  
treat 445As as terrorist attacks."  
  
"Terrorist attacks in Las Vegas?"  
  
"Hey, people in New York were saying that before the Twin Towers fell. Now are you riding with  
me?" I hoped he would. There was no way I was going to let the issue slide with him. I needed to  
know, I needed to get answers.  
  
It was like I've been assigned my own personal case. And I like to solve all of my cases.  
Something is wrong with him and I need to get to the bottom of it, call it a part of my nature, the  
need to know.  
  
"Yeah, sure." he was starting to look nervous, I wouldn't blame him. Heading to a bomb site,  
with the entire Las Vegas crime lab isn't one of the best first field case for him. But, I have to  
remind myself, he was there for the 401C with the bus and the blowout, so he's seen massive  
injuries.  
  
Not to mention he's been in an explosion.   
  
I have to control a guilty wince at that thought.   
  
Greg is walking silently besides me and I wonder what is on his mind. I haven't been that close to  
him as I am with the rest of the CSIs, lab techs are lab techs to us and that is the harsh truth. Then  
I blew up the lab and I realized how much one lab tech's live meant to me.   
  
Now something again was wrong with him. But what?  
  
Let's look at the evidence.   
  
We have blood. Blood originating from some point on the lower arm. The blood was sluggish, old  
almost and it pooled near the palm of his hand.  
  
He had been holding a pencil when I walked in; a pencil near the middle of his arm. But my  
startling him couldn't have forced him to press down hard enough to break the skin but then there  
was blood. Unless...  
  
Unless there was a previous cut there. A cat scratch. Unlikely.  
  
We had reached my Tahoe and jumped in and after a quick radio to Brass of the location, we  
were off. I guess it is time for 'the talk'.  
  
"Greg, how's your arm?"  
  
He had been spacing out the window, fingers rubbing his thighs lightly. "Huh?"  
  
"Your arm. It was bleeding, remember?" he didn't forget, he was avoiding.  
  
"Oh, yeah, it's good." his voice was flip, "What do you think happened?"  
  
"What?" now I was thrown off.  
  
"At the site? Where ever it is that we are going?"  
  
"Oh, according to the particulars that Brass radioed over that the First Continental Trade Bank  
suffered a series of explosions. The first on scene say the building is gone."  
  
"Gone?"  
  
"It collapsed." It was then that I realize that he had successfully detoured me from asking about  
his arm.  
  
Back to the questioning again.  
  
"Greg?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"What happened to your arm?" there it was point blank.  
  
"Nothing, Cath. Just a cat scratch."  
  
"Tell me the truth, Sanders."  
  
"I did."  
  
When did a conversation with someone I know become an interrogation?   
  
This job is getting to me. Everything is becoming a case now.  
  
He seemed to be trembling now. I couldn't tell if it is from the approaching crime scene or the  
attempts at a conversation. Or could it just be the PTS of the lab explosion.  
  
Shit, I just remembered, we are heading to an explosion site, and he must be remembering the lab  
site explosion.  
  
At least the blood has dried.  
  
Because here we are at the site.  
  
My god. Chaos.   
  
This job is getting to me, I know it. 


	3. It seemed to be an act of God

**AN:** Here is another Greg POV. This is mostly a case-file centered part. Oh how the angst will  
come. No end in sight...well there will be... I hope my case seems slightly believable...  
  
**Disclaimer:** I don't own the show and the title comes from an Orgy song, whose name is escaping  
me.  
  
**Warnings:** Blood  
  
**Title:** _Dancing All Alone._  
**Part 3:** _It seemed to be an act of God.  
_--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
People are crying, wailing; so many people are in pain or shock. I just can't seem to block it out.  
Their sobs are seeping through the Tahoe's windows and frame. There is just devastation as far as  
I could see.   
  
I'm still sitting in the passenger seat.  
  
"Greg?" Catherine. She is still staring at me strangely. I turn and avoid her eyes and look outside  
my window once more.  
  
It is dark outside, we work the graveyard shift, so that doesn't surprise me, yet it was near the  
end of our shift and the beginning of the workday so the Las Vegas morning should have been  
shining. But it was dark.  
  
It was then I remembered watching the Twin towers collapse and the spreading dust afterwards.  
It was the dust from the collapsed building that obliterated the sky.  
  
From where I am sitting, I should see the sky above.  
  
There is a jagged column of steel jutting out of the concrete; smoke is still billowing out of a first  
floor window that managed to stay relatively intact. But that isn't what I really noticed. What I  
really see are the charred remains of the mass spectrometer, the shattered fume hood, and for  
some reason, the way each small vial in the gas chromatograph had popped when I laid on the  
floor.  
  
I can see the lab in the remains of the First Continental Trade Bank.  
  
Catherine tried again. "Greg, cat scratch or not, clean up and lets get going." she was out of the  
SUV in no time, leaving me to stare down at my arm. Slowly I peel back the sleeve and wince as  
part of the fabric stuck to the scabbing cut. There are only two 30 cuts on this arm and the one  
that I reopened was the closest to my wrist. It looked better now, just a black, fresh scab. I knew  
what Catherine meant when she told me to clean up, _cross-contamination_, so I just grabbed some  
sanitized wipes and gauze to clean my arm.   
  
Now, I'm good to go.  
  
But looking outside the window, I wonder if I really want to...  
  
I have a job to do and every dark thought has to be shoved to the side and I need to leave this  
Tahoe.   
  
The sound of people crying assaults me as soon as I open the door. It is chaotic as EMTs race by  
with gurneys and even more navy jackets carrying bags.  
  
_Body bags.  
_  
This is serious, I know that now. This much more than the bombing that happened at the Hansen  
Building. This could be that proverbial terrorist attack that everyone has been afraid of since  
September of 2001.  
  
The rest of the CSIs are standing slightly off to the side. It is strange to see Grissom and Ecklie  
standing next to each other without trying out-macho-forensically each other. Catherine and Sara  
are whispering softly, white-knuckled grips on their field kits while Nick and Warrick are both  
looking at the site, grim expressions around their face masks.  
  
I warily join the group. It is the EMTs and firefighters's scene right now. We can't do much. But  
Catherine is giving me that searching look again as she snaps on her mask.  
  
The dust choked sky is harmful to our lungs, but I conveniently forget to place one over my nose  
and mouth, instead taking in a deep breath of harmful air particles.  
  
Nick noticed my lack of protection as I slouched into position next to him. "Hey! G, here put this  
on." he thrust a medical mask into my hands. "Don't want you scorching your lungs, now."  
  
I take it quietly and watch the rescue operation and listen to the low buzz of conversation over  
the wails of the injured.  
  
"What are we looking at, Griss?" Catherine.  
  
"All reports say that there was an explosion in the lobby subsequently followed by a series of  
smaller explosions at surrounding support beams."  
  
Sara. "This guy must have some prior construction knowledge."  
  
"Doesn't take too much to put two and two together, Sara; blow support beams, building comes  
down." Warrick was logical as ever.  
  
"So then he wanted that building to come down." Sara crossed her arms under her chest and  
stared ahead.  
  
"Or he wanted to inflict maximum casualties." Nick quietly pointed it.  
  
If that was this bomber's, excuse me terrorist's, goal, then he was successful. The paramedics  
looked tapped out; too many hurt and too many dead. The First Continental Trade Bank was a  
bank on the first floor, but it also housed ad businesses on the other floors. Looking down at my  
watch, it says a little after nine, so we would have gone off shift by now if the night shift hadn't  
been in the middle of a double and Vegas blue-collar workers would have been sitting behind their  
desks when these bombs went off.  
  
This guy knew when to hit.  
  
Or guys, for that matter.  
  
There was a tap on my should that caused me to turn and meet the harried expression of an EMT.  
"Can any of you help with triage?" he asked, directing the question to entire ensemble of the Las  
Vegas Crime Lab.   
  
Well, as part of crime department, we all basically had medical training. I know I have. All eyes  
turned to Grissom, who nodded and gestured to me and Nick, "You two go and help, the rest are  
going to start combing the tertiary and secondary areas; lets leave the impact zone to the rescue  
teams for now."  
  
I winced as Nick and I followed the EMT. He handed us the color coded tags to help sort the  
victims.  
  
"You guys know which colors, right?" the man raised an eyebrow over his mask. If they weren't  
so desperate, I know they would never have asked the crime lab for help.  
  
"Red: immediate stabilization. Yellow: care can be somewhat delayed. Green: doesn't need or just  
delayed treatment. And black: dead or imminent death." I whispered through my mask.  
  
The EMT gave me a look similar to the one a kindergarten teachers gives the idiot child that  
unexpectedly gives a right answer. "Yes, now the victims have been relocated into the secondary  
area, just sort them by color." with his slightly obvious direction, the EMT rushed off to do his  
own work.  
  
Nick gave me a look that I couldn't identify with the mask covering the lower half of his face.  
"You sure you can do this Greggo?" he asked quietly. Out of all the CSI, Nick seemed to  
understand what I was feeling the most.  
  
"Yeah." I answered shortly, I just needed to get this over with. Looping the tags around my wrist,  
I pulled the plastic tightly so that it dug into a cut. I moved away from him to check on the first  
patient that I came across.  
  
It was a middle aged woman who was holding her head. "Ma'am, my name is Greg Sanders. How  
are you feeling?" she looked alert enough to answer. But while waiting, I pulled my small  
flashlight from my pocket and went about checking her vital.  
  
"My head hurts." she stated simply, looking lost. I didn't blame her. "I..I can't seem to remember  
what happened."   
  
It looked like a concussion. Her pupils were sluggish, but she was responding. She also had what  
seemed to be a broken arm. Unfortunately I couldn't spend much more time with her, there were  
so many more people out there. So I smiled thinly, in an effort to reassure her and placed a green  
tag around her neck and moved on.  
  
The next person was much more difficult. There was a large chunk of metal lodged in the throat  
of a young man dressed in what once was a crisp suit. Blood was bubbling out from around the  
wound, staining his lips, even some from his ears. He looked so young, my age maybe; probably  
one of those straight from college on the up and up type business majors on his first job. Now he  
was shaking as his blood poured out. I knew he was going to make it.  
  
My hands started to tremble as I reached for a black tag. I was about to give this guy a death  
sentence. Paranoia struck then. What if I was wrong? What if the doctors at the hospital could  
save him?   
  
But as I saw his eyes start to turn red and more blood spilled out from his mouth; I knew he was  
slipping. Wincing, I placed the black tag around his neck, avoiding the object that jutted out.   
  
I had to move on.  
  
Red tags, green tags, yellow and black. So many people I had to pick and choose to live and die.  
But I surprised myself that I didn't freeze. I was numb, actually.  
  
A couple of hours ago I was thinking of the different ways to end my life. Now here I am ending  
others. I felt, in a sadistic way, like God.  
  
"Oh God..." I didn't realized that I had dropped my tags and was just staring blankly around the  
site. "I don't know what to do..."  
  
A hand closed around my forearm and twisted me around. The noise from all around me covered  
my gasp of pain from where the hand gripped my cut arm. I was turned to meet the wild eyes of  
an aging man, who was dressed like a homeless man.  
  
Then again, with all the dust and debris, everyone was looking like a bum.   
  
"Mister, mister please....you need to help me." he spoke with a slight slur but he seemed to have a  
head wound.  
  
Funny he should ask me that, when I can't even help myself.   
  
"Please, mister, my friends....where...where are they?"  
  
"What floor did they work on?" I asked dully, besides the triage, we've been sorting the victims  
that were mobile by floors and business.  
  
"They didn't work on any of the floors." the man gripped my other hand and pulled me closer.  
"Mister, this building, it is, it was, our home. The alley, we sometimes stayed there in the night.  
No one bothered us. _It was safe_."  
  
I could smell a slight bit of alcohol now as he pulled me close to him. I took a closer look and  
realized my first impression was right, he was a homeless man. All my frustration seemed to  
dissipate as I heard his words.  
  
"I'm afraid, mister, no one knows we were there...no one knows if they are dead." the dust  
covered face did nothing to hide the wide, fearful eyes.  
  
It seemed to be an act of God.  
  
CSIs can tract who was all in the building at the time of the bomb's denotation, they could find  
everyone who worked there, alive, hurt, dead, or dust, but no one could find out for sure how  
many homeless people were using the surrounding areas as their home, or just a place for a nap.   
  
They would have died alone.  
  
Could this be an act of God?  
  
"Please, mister, find them..." 


End file.
